


Missing Pieces of You

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, College, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, M/M, Pining, Surprising Lack of Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s only when they’re apart that they truly see each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing Pieces of You

He guesses he should have known this was always going to be a possibility. They talked about it all through middle school and freshman year, wrote their college applications together. But it still surprises him when Stiles decides to go to Berkeley and he decides to go to Davis. 

It feels wrong in the same way cinnamon flavored jelly beans are wrong, disappointing like _Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull_ \--- in concept it sounds amazing, but in execution you’re left trying to wash a bad taste out of your mouth. While he knows he should be happy, there was a long time there when he thought he wasn’t going to make it to higher education, let alone the university of his dreams, he can’t help but find himself staring wistfully out the window wondering about Stiles. He’s constantly turning to talk to him, mentally noting things he’d think Stiles would find interesting.

He’s been doing it ever since he took residence in Potter hall, met his roommate Brett, who is chill and unobtrusive and polite and, basically, the opposite of everything Stiles is. He just can’t stop himself from longing. It’s like his fixation with the moon. He knows it can be destructive, overtake his sense and reasoning, but he can’t pull back from its lure. 

They’re technically only slightly over an hour away. But because of classes and what his mom called ‘fostering a life outside of each other’, they don’t hang out until the weekends. Not in person, anyway. If he’s going to get into veterinary medicine he’s going to have avoid distraction and that’s not really possible when Stiles is sitting next to him tapping out a rhythm, or in the bed across from his mumbling in his sleep, or recommending training tasks while he’s trying to meditate, or study, or eat. They’ve had enough sleepovers for Scott to _know_ it’s actually a great thing they’re not rooming together, but instinctively, it’s still an itch under his skin. 

He pulls his laptop closer, typing out an email to Isaac. He’d tried to text his response to ‘how’s campus life treating you?’ but his thumbs almost fell off. Overall, it’s treating him awesomely, but he misses everyone and everything he knows. He prefers the freedom of college compared to high school, but he’s still at the stage he gets lost if he makes a wrong turn and has to use his sense of smell and landmarks to navigate back to where he’s supposed to be. 

He’s enquiring after Boyd when Skype alerts him that Stiles is online. He automatically clicks ‘video call’, bouncing impatiently against the mattress as he waits for it to load. One of the worst things he has to contend with on a daily basis is his shitty wifi connection and usually it’s easily ignorable, but here, now, it makes him want to howl. 

“Hey!” Stiles says, pressing his knuckles up against his camera. It’s their way of fistbumping over the wires. When he pulls back, Scott can see that he’s wearing glasses. Why is he wearing glasses?

“Dude, why are you wearing glasses? Is it some kind of cheap ploy to pick up girls?”

Stiles looks good with glasses. Not better, but different. On the one hand, he looks more mature and considered. On the other, he doesn’t look as strong and forceful as he is. There’s a harmlessness to Stiles that doesn’t sit right. Scott can imagine it would be beyond easy for him to score as many dates as he wants. He doesn’t know why thinking that twists a stab of anger low in his gut. He tries to ignore it. 

“I kept getting headaches so Van --- you remember Van, right? She said I should go get my eyes checked out. Apparently I squint a lot. I tried to convince her that was just my rakish charm, but she wouldn’t believe me. Anyway, it turns out I need reading glasses. But I don’t think they look too bad, though, do you?”

“They look… fine,” Scott says, knowing it’s a wholly inadequate response. 

“There’s no need for shade.”

“That wasn’t shade.”

“Scott, that was an eclipse, okay? If I take them off, it won’t be as easy for me to see your pretty face. They’re staying on.”

Scott smiles at the ‘pretty face’ comment. He can never really stop himself from smiling at Stiles’ compliments and come ons, even in life or death situations. 

“They suit you,” Scott says, amending his previous lack of enthusiasm. “But it’s weird seeing you wearing glasses when you’ve never had to before.”

“I did have to before. We just never noticed because I thought all my headaches were Monster of the Week related.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and scrubs a hand through his hair at the same time. He ends up spiking up the front to a ridiculous height and that settles something in Scott, for reasons he can’t even parse. Like, as long as there’s an element of over the top to Stiles, he hasn’t irrevocably changed. And that’s when he realizes he’s side-eying the glasses because they make Stiles look muted and mundane and he’s always been anything other than those two things. Seriously, Scott may be the werewolf, but Stiles is _extraordinary_.

“Forget about my spectacular specs and tell me everything,” Stiles demands. “Every class, every professor, every student you’ve talked to today.”

And Scott does.

*

After a few weeks, their nightly debriefing session gets cut down to bi-nightly, they haven’t met up during any of the weekends, and Scott’s as much to blame as anyone so he can’t feel like he’s being abandoned. He’s gotten a part-time job at Trudy’s and it doesn’t pay well, but it pays enough. The best thing is that he gets an employee discount and since the prices for even basic groceries are astronomical and he can’t afford a car to make it to the local safeway or save mart, it helps. It really helps. He can vary what he adds to his ramen noodles, it’s incredible. 

Working at Trudy’s also lends itself to him getting to know way more students than he thinks he would have gotten to know by his own devices and soon he has people saying hi to him all over campus and at the couple of parties he lets Brett drag him to. Scott’s man enough to admit that it’s a nice ego boost. He was never one of the popular kids at Beacon Hills High. Not even in the junior and senior years, despite being captain of the lacrosse team, as well as being friends with Lydia, who quickly regained her queen bee status after the whole Peter thing. Several people have told him he’s the best employee at Trudy’s and Scott always works on being friendly and upbeat, even when he’s tired to his very bones. Admittedly, he doesn’t tire as easily as others, so it’s not too difficult. Plus, it’s kind of hard to be grumpy when you’re allowed two free smoothies per week. It’s a physical impossibility to frown when you’re slurping down delicious cookies and cream flavored goodness.

Stiles has also gotten a part-time job, but his is at the Cal student store, which Scott thinks isn’t as lucky a posting. Yes, there is a discount for all school supplies Stiles may want, but there are also angry students who’ve just been armed with extremely expensive and heavy textbooks. Stiles recounts a story about a 6 ft 3 guy he’d nicknamed Beef-face who wanted a refund that was never going to happen, and Scott lets out an honest to God growl that surprises them both. 

“We’re going running this Saturday. It’s decided,” Stiles says. Scott doesn’t argue. 

Last full moon he meditated and called his mom to keep himself anchored. He borrows Brett’s bike and cycles occasionally, but he does miss running; feeling the wind ruffle through his hair, the solidity of the earth beneath his feet. He misses the sense of freedom and letting his more animal side take the reins. He always has to be so careful, so in control, he forgets he’s part wolf sometimes. He gets surprised when he can’t take his eyes off someone else’s food when he’s hungry, or automatically tunes into someone’s breathing, heartbeat and scent to determine whether they’re lying to themselves and the whole world or only to him. 

Scott goes to classes, studies, works, sleeps and eats the week away, trying not to psych himself up too much for Stiles’ visit. It’s uncommonly warm for the month and the strangeness contributes to Scott’s building sense of excitement enmeshed with unease. It isn’t that he lacks appreciation for his new friends, or that he isn’t made happy by chatting to the pack. He even smiles when he gets a text from Derek, even though all it says is, “u good?” and requires nothing more than a “yeah, u?” that garners no response. But getting to see Stiles after over a month of not seeing him other than in laggy, grainy webcam quality feels huge in ways he has no words for.

He can’t sleep Friday night. That’s what it’s come to. He can’t sleep and he doesn’t want to eat breakfast, but he does because his body commands it with loud snarls. And then it comes time. The second he hears the Jeep he’s out the door and heading to the parking lot. Stiles is climbing out the car, looking healthy and vital, and _there_ , and Scott should contain himself, _could_ contain himself, but doesn’t. He swings Stiles into an embrace, holding tight and smelling all of Stiles’ familiar smells, alongside some new ones. Scott’s overwhelmed by sensations of security, comfort. Home. 

“Missed you too, buddy,” Stiles says, clinging onto him just as tight. 

They pull apart, Scott now feeling sheepish and awkward, which he’s basically never felt around Stiles, not for any Stiles-related reason. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Well, that’s not entirely true. He knows what he wants to do, but he’s fairly sure it’d be inappropriate and he has no idea where it’s come from anyway. So he stands, waiting for Stiles to move, which he does after a beat, going into the back of the Jeep and hauling out a backpack. 

“Brett’s staying with his girlfriend tonight?” Stiles asks, balancing from foot to foot like they’re burning against the asphalt.

Scott nods. “Yeah. He said he was, anyway.”

“Thought I’d stay the night, use my sleeping bag on his bed, if that’s okay? He won’t mind, will he?”

“No, Brett’s cool. Also, he once invited his entire a cappella group to rehearse in our room while I was writing an essay worth half my grade, so he owes me, big time.”

Stiles grins, wide and white and perfect, and Scott drags him into another hug, deftly taking his bag as he does so. To distract himself. To give his action a purpose.

“I can carry it myself, you know. I may not have superpowers, but I’m not exactly a weakling,” Stiles protests. 

Scott marches ahead, flashes him a look over his shoulder. No, Stiles is not weak, not in any way. He’s been Scott’s moral compass, his amoral compass, his confidant, his jailer, his rescuer. He’s been through pain and suffering and confusion that no one should ever have to contend with. But he’s still here for Scott. 

“You say that, but can you get it off me?” Scott asks, darting forward into a jog. He spins around, walks backwards effortlessly, gives Stiles a cocky smirk. “Winner buys lunch.”

Stiles juts his chin forward, narrows his eyes. “Deal. But if I see your eyes flash gold at any stage, you’re disqualified and have to pay the full forfeit of both lunch and dinner.”

“You know my eyes don’t have to flash for my powers to work, don’t you? They’re kind of a constant thing.”

“Forfeit of both lunch _and_ dinner,” Stiles reiterates, advancing. 

Scott sets off, running forwards at a pace that he knows Stiles could catch up to. To be honest, he wants to be captured. Stiles always throws his whole body into tag. In the past, Scott’s found himself hurled onto his side or front or back and climbed over at least nine times. Maybe he should be ashamed he’s angling for that to happen. Perhaps he should be questioning why. But instead he listens into Stiles’ heartbeat, frowns when it veers off course, no longer behind him. Scott spins again, looks, but Stiles really isn’t there. He can’t be seen at his sides either. Scott’s about to call his name, check that Stiles is playing with him and not victim to another supernatural creature. There have been too many chases ending in disaster and life has been quiet. It would be just his luck that evil finds them when everything’s going so well. 

But then Stiles is pouncing on him from behind, pulling off the backpack and tossing it to the side. He only lets Scott twist in his grip after he’s straddling him, brown eyes glittering down with joy and affection. He’s solid and warm, thighs tight at Scott’s sides. Like this, it’s so easy to see the ways Stiles has grown, even in the short month they’ve been apart. He’s more confident in his body, now, more sure. There’s a glint in his eye that speaks of unguarded maturity. He started gaining definition in junior year of high school, grew his hair out, wore fewer layers as body armor and he’s continued that ever since. Scott hadn’t really noticed before, but it’s hard not to when it’s all right on top of him. As Stiles shifts against his hips, Scott can see his abs crunch under the tight, thin material of his T-shirt. He wants to touch.

Scott’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and he can’t respond when Stiles asks if he concedes defeat. He doesn’t struggle, just submits. He thinks this is how it’s always been between them, with Stiles demanding what they do and when and how they do it and him following along unquestioningly because Stiles has all his trust. But it feels different like this. Stronger. More encompassing. 

Stiles stops, seems to notice Scott’s inability and disinclination to either speak or shake him off. He reaches up and brushes a lock of hair off Scott’s forehead, pressing his lips together tightly as if deciding upon a course of action. In the next second he’s standing up and reaching out a hand for Scott to hold onto and drag himself vertical. 

“How did you do that?” Scott asks, trying to get back some semblance of normal. “Sneak up on me?”

“You’re not the only one who’s been meditating,” Stiles says with a mysterious air. Then he shrugs, ruining the effect. “Deaton’s also taught me a masking ward and some herbal concoctions that throw off a wolf’s senses.”

“You cheater. Surely you now have to pay the forfeit?”

“Uh, you never made that stipulation. No words were spoken about my cheating habits. You, my friend, must buy or make me the most scrumptious food you can find.”

“I have some Aggie cash? We can get something from Trudy’s, find some lawn to lay on? We could go back to your Jeep once we drop off your bag and head to Original Steve’s or Tommy J’s? Or we could see what’s available at Tercero Dining Commons? We might get lucky and they’ll be serving turkey burgers? There are, like, dozens of options.”

“Trudy’s?” Stiles asks, with the kind of hesitation he usually never shows. “You keep waxing rhapsodically about the smoothies.”

Scott heads in the direction of Tercero, where Trudy’s is located, thinking they might as well head there first and drop off Stiles’ bag after. “I think Izzy’s on today. She’d totally give us a discount and a free bag of chips.”

“Oh yeah? She’s sweet on you, huh? C’mon, I have to know everything if I’m gonna live vicariously through you.”

“Her girlfriend would tear me limb from limb if she was sweet on me. No, dude, she’s just the kindest person I’ve met here. And don’t get me wrong --- people in general are great --- but Izzy’s the nurturing type. We were on shift together once and she was like, ‘you’re pining’, and I was all ‘no, no I haven’t had a girlfriend for seven months, I have no one to pine over’, and she bought me a cupcake and made me tell her what was making me so blue.”

“What _was_ making you blue?” 

Scott pauses, tries to think of a suitable lie. He’s good at omitting information when it comes to Stiles, but outright lying to him is next to impossible. And somehow it feels weird to admit that he was depressed because he’d been stood up for a Skype call. By Stiles. 

“I can’t even remember now,” he says, he hopes convincingly, and then eschews all further conversation on the topic to talk about Erica and Boyd’s latest status updates. 

Izzy is on shift. She gives Stiles an appreciative once-over, eyes lingering on his jeans in a manner that Scott would be outraged by if he didn’t know it was all for show. 

“Who’s the hottie, Scott?” 

“Izzy, this is Stiles.”

“Oh? The best friend. When you were telling me that story about how you used to share a paddling pool together, this is not what I had in mind.”

“Good, because, as I told you, we were five,” Scott says, just as Stiles goes, “oh my God”, with an exaggerated, shocky little shudder. 

“We should probably get out of here as soon as we have food,” Scott stage-whispers to Stiles. “I forgot to mention that on top of being the nicest person I’ve met, Izzy’s also the most evil.”

“Aww, I’m so touched,” Izzy says. She hands over two smoothies and a family-sized pack of doritos. “What’re you both up to today? Tell me all and don’t spare the technicolor or surround sound.”

“We’re---“ Scott begins.

“Having all the gay sex,” Stiles interjects. “In every conceivable position. I’m talking reverse cowboy mixed with a dose of helicopter. It’s gonna sound a little like this…”

Izzy raises her hands, shuffles away. “I’ll just be out back checking the stock. You can mind the store for a minute, can’t you, Scott?”

Scott tamps down on his sudden, startling annoyance. This shouldn’t sit uncomfortably with him, but he wants to wipe the smirk off Stiles’ self-satisfied face. The urge to touch him is still strong, but now the intention’s transformed. Before, it was about being able to convince himself that Stiles is really here, that he’s standing before Scott, glorious and uninhibited. At this moment in time, it’s more about wanting to prove a point. That some things shouldn’t be joked about. That one day Stiles will talk himself into a corner and his only escape will be clawing his way out, tooth and nail. 

“Are you super hungry or only a little hungry?” he asks, working hard to keep his voice neutral. 

“You know me. There’s no such thing as a little hungry when food’s there for the taking.”

He grabs supplies and shouts out to Izzy that it’s safe to come back. She gives Stiles an even more thorough, assessing once-over when she does while Scott rings up their purchases. Scott’s seen that look before and it tells him one thing; she knows she’s met a worthy opponent.

“You’re all serious and quiet,” Stiles says when they settle down on the stretch of lawn they’ve found, away from other groups of students. 

“I’m tired,” Scott replies, and it’s the truth, though there’s also some omission going on. 

“If your fitness level has been reduced to only being able to complete a short game of tag and a ten minute walk, we may need to start you on a training regime.”

“I was awake stupidly late into the night.”

Stiles looks concerned. “You should’ve told me. I’d have been happy to postpone my visit so you could catch up on much needed zzzzzs.”

“No, this is what I needed. Time to just be me.”

“I know what you mean. I never thought I’d miss Isaac rolling his eyes at me, or Lydia shooting one of my theories down with a single word, or my dad’s disappointment when I tell him he has to have at least three vegetable servings for every serving of meat, but I do, I really do.” Stiles wriggles closer, lays a hand on Scott’s elbow. “And I miss this, of course. You.”

Scott taps at Stiles’ fingers, absently, about to respond, when Stiles continues. “But don’t you --- don’t you kind of love the freedom you have from other people’s expectations of you?”

Scott thinks about it. There’s something to be said for not having anyone automatically assume he’s going to act a certain way, fall into an established pattern of behavior. For not always having to come rushing in, save the day, remain cheerful and upbeat and aware of his imperfections. For no one thinking, “oh, he’s the weak asthmatic kid”, or “he’s the weirdly strong lacrosse champion”, or “he’s the uncontrollable monster”. He doesn’t want to reinvent himself, but the possibility’s there, shining like a star to wish upon. He can try things he never would have thought to attempt, before, push himself in new directions, with no one to tell him, “that’s not you.” 

*

They ease into familiarity eventually, although it takes longer than Scott would ever have thought. The tension between them reminds him of when he and Isaac first started getting close and that’s just wrong. 

Last time they hung out, they were at Berkeley, and Stiles has only been to Davis once before, back when Scott had no real clue where anything was, so after their run, they go on a tour of all Scott’s favorite places, meet up with one of his core groups of friends; Jake, Skye and Taelah. The run was good just like Scott thought it would be, but he’s calmer when they’re walking and relaxing around other people, and he can’t put his finger on why. 

Stiles is granted the same wide-eyed response from everyone and he doesn’t get it, at all. Certainly not to the point where Taelah frowns and mutters about life being unfair. He’s shown them pictures before. They’re all facebook friends. But he guesses Stiles looks different in person. He can be totally photogenic when the mood strikes him, but it usually doesn’t, and he seems to take great joy in pulling the most ridiculous face he can whenever a camera is within three yards. Scott has countless photos of Stiles in turtle mode, or mid-roar, or doing his best impression of a duck. 

It’s mostly bizarre because Scott knew Stiles was good-looking before Stiles did. During one of many instances of Stiles’ self-conscious whining that no one would ever want to touch him, it was no wonder Lydia ignored every fiber of his being, Scott sat them down in front of a mirror and cataloged all that a girl could fall in love with, even if she was shallow (which it turned out, Lydia was not.) He sat behind him, traced his fingers lightly over his features, pointed out every little perfection. He started with Stiles’ large and soulful eyes, continued on with his adorable ski-jump nose, and concluded with his seriously kissable lips. They were fourteen, and they were both awkward for about a week afterwards, but Stiles held himself taller after that, started taking more risks. It worked, he thinks. 

Yes, Stiles has grown into himself. He’s angled where once he was rounded, he’s broad-shouldered where once he was reedy, muscular where once he was thin. But he’s always had this potential and Scott doesn’t understand why it’s now so remarkable. 

The attention also makes him feel possessive, a low hum traveling down all his nerves; _he was mine first, back off._ It’s shameful, it’s petty, it’s true.

“You should come to the party being held at Leach tonight,” Jake says. “Tell me, Stiles, was Scott a complete square in high school too?”

“Scott? A square?” Stiles asks with a frown and something suspiciously like a giggle. “Scott’s a circle. A big ol’ trouble making circle.”

“So you have wild drinking stories?”

“Oh, drinking? No. Scott doesn’t usually drink. But he doesn’t need to. The things we’ve gotten up to stone cold sober. We had a restraining order leveled against us because we kidnapped the co-captain of the lacrosse team and tied him up in a police transport vehicle. My dad’s the Sheriff,” Stiles says, pulling at his shirt with a smug grin. 

Skye whips her head around to stare at Scott. He can practically taste her disappointment, it’s so thick in the air. She’s one of his more compassionate friends. Not the kind of person to find hazing or ritual humiliation amusing. “What? But why?”

“Jackson was being a douche,” Scott answers. He doesn’t mention the part about him also being a homicidal lizard creature under a psychopath’s command. Or that he moved to New York to find himself and hasn’t been heard from since. “It was one in a long line of pranks we played against each other.”

“You’re gonna drink tonight, though, aren’t you, Scott?” Stiles says, diverting the conversation back, not really picking up on the furious glare being sent his way. He leans in close, wraps a hand over his shoulder so he can whisper into his ear. His breath is hot and damp, sends a shiver down Scott’s spine. “I have some herbs that’ll make it worth your while.”

Scott narrows his eyes at Stiles, at his mischievous smile. He wonders what the game is, and whether there are any rules. He’s ahead in most of his classes, including chemistry, which has never been easy for him, because Harris was a shitty teacher as well as an asshole, and it’s been a while since he really let loose. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be drunk and the temptation is in his periphery, urging him to live a little. He barely notices when the temptation comes into his field of vision, waving a gigantic sign. Soon, the temptation is looming over him, sitting on his chest, much like Stiles earlier. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, pretending to still be grudging. “I guess.”

When they’re back in Scott’s room later that day, changing into more party appropriate attire --- which in Scott’s case is a change of t-shirt and a blazer, because it’s finally gotten cold --- Stiles tells him about the herb tincture and how Erica got the recipe from the pack she visited in Las Vegas. 

“It stood to reason, right? Of course there’s a way for wolves to get drunk. How had we never thought of that? And before you ask, yes, I spoke to Deaton and asked if it was toxic. He said no more than regular alcohol, so I think we’re good.”

“Sure,” Scott says with a fond smile. “Let’s go kill a few hundred braincells.”

Stiles strips off his shirt, stretches his arms up. He’s facing the wall, all long, pale lines, muscles shifting under his skin. His shoulder blades are sharp and dangerous, his spine a promise of strength. Scott tracks his moles --- wonders, briefly, what it’d be like to press his fingertips against them. He thinks he could, maybe, if he turned it into a tickle war. But it’s a bad idea and he’s beginning to assume all of this is some kind of weird hormonal reaction to them being apart for too long. His brain’s screwed up translating chemical reactions to Stiles’ proximity because it’s gotten out of practice. 

The solution is obviously as much proximity to Stiles as he can handle.

*

It’s hard to talk over the sound of the music, so mostly they just dance, and drink, and find corners to rest in. When Scott does talk, it’s to deny that Stiles is his boyfriend, even though they keep intermittently grinding against one another throughout the course of the night. Dance parties have always been their thing and the grinding has been part of that as long as he can remember. It’s completely innocent joking around, with a little bit of exhibitionism thrown in. Stiles jumps around like he’s half-pogo-stick, but fluid and exacting, and Scott can never find his rhythm, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to mirror the action. 

Stiles is dancing with Taelah when Izzy finds Scott. He’s chugging down another beer. It’s warm and bland, but it still gives him an extra buzz and while he doesn’t think he’ll ever like the taste, he could get used to it. He really likes that it’s now a possibility, anyway, another thing he has in common with everyone else. He may have settled into being a werewolf, into having a responsibility he never asked for, but he still likes being able to pretend he’s normal once in a while. And it really doesn’t matter how many times Stiles tells him there’s no such thing.

“You’re telling me you two have never done anything? No teenage experimentation? No mutual masturbation?” she yells above din of a pop remix that Scott doesn’t recognize.

“Should we have? Is that some kind of rite of passage?” Scott yells back, incredulously. 

He looks back to Stiles, who now seems to be trying to show Taelah how to move like Beyoncé. It would be more impressive on her 5 ft 4 frame, she has the figure for it and Stiles decidedly does not. But he has the technique and she’s not there yet. 

“No, but I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

“We haven’t.”

Izzy nudges into his side. “Yet.” 

Scott snorts at her affectionately, shaking his head. 

The dancing continues. It gets more frenzied, with the music becoming more rock and less roll, something that’s more suited to his style of movement. He’s comfortably dizzy with it, a little untethered. He thinks, maybe, he snuggles into Stiles’ shoulder at one point, because his heart’s pounding so hard he’s sure everyone can hear it and he’s intoxicated by the sounds and smells of commotion and recklessness and joy. It is, without a doubt, the best party he’s ever been to. 

His limbs feel loose, his head agreeably fuzzy. Every face he sees is smiling. He’s pretty sure he got glitter bombed at one stage, but that just adds to his general sense of good will. Scott puts his whole body into moving, not caring if he looks inelegant or foolish because it’s the most fun he’s had in years. At one point, Taelah comes and dances with him, with Stiles molding himself to her back, and she swings between their bodies with metronomic precision, grabbing hold of Scott’s hips and rolling him around until he’s keeping time. 

“So hot,” Stiles gusts out, throwing his head back so that all Scott can see of him is the long column of his throat. He has a sudden mental flash of what it might look between his teeth. There’s no blood involved.

“Too hot,” he says back, leaving Taelah and Stiles to it and wandering in the direction of the door. 

He needs fresh air and he needs it fast. He swears he can feel his veins expanding and his lungs going tight. Scott slumps against the wall and scrunches his eyes shut.

He’s heaving in his third deep breath when Stiles finds him, pats him softly on the cheek. 

“You okay?”

Scott revives, is about to tell Stiles not to worry about him, to go back inside and keep partying hard, but he’s arrested by the way Stiles’ eyes shine in the moonlight, how his lips are parted and glistening. 

“Yeah,” he croaks. “No, I’m good. I just. Alcohol. It’s more than I --- it’s more.”

“I think I might’ve given you too much of the tincture,” Stiles says with a measuring glance.

“Or I just can’t hold my liquor,” Scott jokes back. 

Stiles slings an arm over his shoulders. It’s like being wrapped in a blanket and showered with ice at the same time. “C’mon, little wizard, let’s go back to Potter hall.”

“You’ve been waiting to use that, haven’t you? I wondered when the wand quips would start.”

“I’ve been sneaking references in covertly since you told me where your room would be. You’ve really missed all of them up until now? I thought you were valiantly pretending to ignore them. I told you that the asshole who won’t shut up during my lectures is my Grindelwald, Scott.”

“You know I’m more sci-fi than fantasy. You don’t get to tell me off for not knowing minor details from a series of books I haven’t read and movies I only watched under pressure. From you.”

“Heathen!”

Scott doesn’t remember much about the rest of the night when he wakes up the next morning, but he’s down to his boxer briefs, has glitter plastering every part of his body he can see, and he’s swaddled in his blankets. Stiles is snoring loudly from Brett’s bed, lying on his front, his left leg hanging off the side of the mattress, his face angled toward the wall. He’s shirtless too, back rising and falling with each deep intake of breath. Scott watches him for a moment, more, caught up in the little snuffling sounds Stiles makes, in the way the sheet slides further into the dip of his back. 

He doesn’t have a hangover, he actually feels revitalized, and he decides to go have a shower before Stiles awakens. If he remembers correctly it’s blueberry pancake day at the Dining Commons and he would kill for a yogurt.

Stiles is awake when he makes it back to his room, texting someone with nimble thumbs, glasses perched on his nose and hair sticking up every which way. He looks like someone Scott thought he knew once, an old acquaintance he lost touch with but wants to find again. Not his best friend. Not the person who knows him best in the world, whom he knows best in turn. 

“Shower and then pancakes?” he asks, because he can’t ask him who he is. He can’t interrogate him and find out what he did to the real Stiles.

“Sounds awesome. Derek wants to know if you’re feeling any side effects.”

“He does?”

“He framed it as ‘tell me Scott’s not drowning in a puddle of vomit’, but yeah. Apparently Skye posted a whole bunch of pictures of us looking wasted. You more so than me.”

“Derek’s facebook friends with Skye?”

“No, but Isaac is, and you know Derek has no sense of boundaries. Of course he’d be cyber stalking us when he can’t physically stalk us.”

“He can physically stalk us. He’s coming next weekend to ‘put me through my paces’,” Scott says with a roll of his eyes. 

“Better you than me, buddy. There are some advantages to being the human member of a pack.” Stiles shakes his head. “But this hangover is not one of them, ugh.”

Scott leans in before he can stop himself, pressing his fingertips to Stiles’ temples. He leeches the pain, watching his veins burn black. Stiles groans, dipping his head forward. His glasses slide further down his nose and Scott reflexively pushes them back up with his thumb, skates a soft touch over his cheekbone. 

“You should market you,” Stiles says with a flail of his hand. Scott nods, not knowing what he’s agreeing to. 

Stiles stands, reaching for his towel, edges past Scott to go out the door. Scott promises himself he’s not going to extend his senses to follow the sound of Stiles padding down the corridor, but he doesn’t succeed.

*

They fall back into a pattern of regular texting, irregular Skype calling and rare visitation over the next couple of months. Scott has a surprisingly not terrible day with Derek involving a lot of jumping and weight training and then follows him back to Beacon Hills to spend a few hours with his mom. 

He alternates between pointedly avoiding thinking about why everything’s gotten so strange between him and Stiles, and analyzing every detail. He comes up with a metaphor that he thinks works, but is also something he’d never say out loud. He thinks that he was maybe too close to Stiles before; all he could see were the brushstrokes that make up his composition, but not the whole effect they could have. Now that there’s distance between them he can see the whole picture. And it’s stunning. He wants to stare for hours, wants to own him and keep him in a private, guarded gallery. 

He goes to more parties to distract himself from his burgeoning agitation over his life, lets himself get drunk, but within acceptable limits. The last thing he wants is to injure or maim anyone because he’s lost all reason. Brett drags him along to an off campus get together that’s made up of 300 of his closest friends. Jake comes too, quickly attaching himself to a cute blonde named Britt, and Izzy must turn up at some point during the night, because Scott finds himself shuffling an outdated but still hilarious Gangnam Style around her protesting form. 

He’s having vodka for the first time when another guy sidles up to him, swaying from side to side in perfect tempo with the music. He’s wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a sad zombie thinking about a sandwich and he has a bright and infectious smile. 

“I saw your moves before. You’re sort of hilariously bad.”

“I’ll have you know it takes a lot of skill to make dancing look as terrible as I do. I’ve committed a lot of time and effort to the cause.”

“Care to give me a demonstration?”

Scott looks at the guy again. There’s a deep scent arousal rolling off him in waves and a nervous anticipation in the twitch of his lips. It’s late and Scott’s on the finer side of inebriated, and he thinks, “why not?” 

“I’d like that,” he says, flashing his warmest smile. “I’m Scott, by the way.”

“Toby.”

They fit together well. They’re almost the same height, although Toby is perhaps an inch taller. Scott really likes the way they move in sync, even though it’s out of time with the music. There’s a teasing element to it all that isn’t cruel or mean and Scott surrenders himself to it, to wrapping his arms around a thin waist and a broad shoulder, slow dancing when he should be bopping, slinking when he should be wriggling. The encircling press of bodies pushes them closer together, the haze of pheromones in the air has Scott parting his lips for a sweet, hesitant kiss. 

There’s no one to tell him he’s only dated girls up until now, no one to be shaken or devastated. There’s a cute guy who wants to get to kiss him and he’s never been able to say no to new experiences. Scott nuzzles deeper into it, opening up wider for anything Toby wants to take. It isn’t as frantic as he expects kissing another guy to be, not as demanding, but it’s awesome, he really likes it, finds he doesn’t want to stop licking at Toby’s lower lip and arching into the trunk of his body. He really only becomes aware of his surroundings when Toby pulls away, a regretful frown on his face and his iPhone in his hand. 

“Sorry, I have to take this. But don’t go far, okay?”

Scott agrees, wanders back over to the drinks with the intention of picking up a couple bottles of beer, idly hopes that he wasn’t just blown off by an imaginary phone call. 

“I said you were a thing,” Izzy says out of nowhere, hitting him on the shoulder.

“Huh?”

“You and Stiles. Kissing. On the dance floor.”

Scott blinks, scrubs a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t Stiles.”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“That was Toby. He wanted me to prove I can dance. Why did you think it was Stiles?”

Izzy smacks him again. Scott’s positive he’d be in pain if he was still wholly human. “You cannot be that dense.”

Scott’s about to proclaim Izzy drunk out of her mind, but then Toby’s weaving toward him through the crowd, all bright almond-shaped brown eyes and plush lips, and he sees it. He looks around, searching for a surface to bash his head against, blot out all thoughts.

“I’ve gotta go,” Toby says, smelling stricken and disappointed. He presses his phone into Scott’s hand. Scott stares down at it, raises his eyebrows. “Can I have your contact?” 

Scott taps in his number, ignoring the curious gaze he can sense Izzy’s giving him. He knows he won’t ever call or text Toby back, that it’d be leading him on, but he wants to maintain the illusion they have a chance, for a short while.

“I’m gonna go too,” Scott tells Izzy shortly after Toby’s gone. He’s been trying to hold it together, act calm and disaffected by revelations he really doesn’t want to be having, but he can’t, he isn’t that strong. He needs time and space, to be under the stars and the moon.

“I think Brett’s still with Janie somewhere upstairs.”

“Not a problem, I’m gonna walk. I need the exercise. I’ll see you Monday,” Scott says, not meaning to be curt, but finding his mouth dried up and uncooperative. 

Outside, the air is chill. Davis is quiet, with not too many other people braving the late autumn night. Scott starts off at a leisurely pace, but soon speeds into a sprint, pounding the sidewalk. Half of him wants to bend forward, use his hands, but he’s been reliably informed it looks insane and the last thing he wants to do is draw attention from the few night owls who might be staring out their windows. He runs around for a long time, navigating via the stars, not heading in any particular direction. He ends up at the fitness trail in Walnut park, using the equipment like an obstacle course. Most of his pent up aggression is spent swinging from bar to bar, jumping over the bench several times, weaving and ducking from side to side. 

When he’s tired enough he’s stumbling, he heads toward campus. He jogs up Russell boulevard, chest looser, mind clear. He concentrates on the journey, not allowing any other concerns to filter into his consciousness. He’s going to go sleep, then he’s going to wake up in time for orange juice and muffins, and then he’s going to spend his Sunday working with the other members of his oral presentation group. 

*

He doesn’t sleep. He’s in the Dining Commons earlier than most everyone else. And the rest of his oral presentation group is busy with essays, or girlfriends, or the latest Assassin’s Creed. Scott wanders aimlessly around campus before making himself comfortable at the library, piling up all the books he can find on the occult and folklore. He’s been meaning to start this personal project since he arrived at Davis, but has always conveniently shoved it to the side before now. It suddenly feels essential that the Argent bestiary be fact-checked and added to, that he stops wallowing in wilful ignorance of other creatures of the night. 

He learns a lot as the hours tick by. More than he really wanted to. He texts Derek some questions and is horrified by the answers he receives. Yes, selkies are a real life thing, no leprechauns aren’t. Yeah, that monster will totally scoop out your eyeballs and eat them whole. No, it won’t kill you before or after the event. 

By late evening he’s studied out, a knot forming between his shoulders and his neck sore. He sits up in bed watching random youtube videos to send himself to sleep, but Skype alerts him of a message just as he’s about to shut his laptop down.

 **stileshasgotstyle:** Don’t video call me yet. I need to warn you so that you don’t freak. We don’t want another glasses situation on our hands.

 **wolfbruvvah96:** Warn me about what?

 **stileshasgotstyle:** I may have lost a bet and I may or may not have had to blond it up.

 **wolfbruvvah96:** WHAT? WHY?

 **stileshasgotstyle:** I just said. A bet. Van said she didn’t think I could eat six hot dogs in a row and it turns out she was right, but that’s okay, because she totally compensated with a pj

 **wolfbruvvah96:** pj? pajamas? peanut butter and jelly sandwich? 

**stileshasgotstyle:** sorry. typing too quickly. BJ. Guess who’s no longer carrying his v-card? THIS DUDE. 

Scott stares at his screen, inhaling deeply. The sudden rush of air makes his nostrils sting. His stomach feels like it’s fallen out of existence, a headache is rapidly forming behind his eyes. He shouldn’t be angry, he shouldn’t, because he has no hold over Stiles, didn’t even know he wanted one until yesterday when he kissed another guy, so it’d be hypocritical and stupid for him to react badly now. But he is a hypocrite and he has been known to be stupid, so his fingers hover over the keys, refusing to work correctly. 

Skype alerts him to an incoming video call and he can’t reject it, because then Stiles will know something’s up, so he accepts, slips on his headset, doing his best to school his features into something resembling something other than his world crumbling apart.

“Hey!” Stiles says with a grin that Scott can’t muster the energy to return. 

He looks _offensive_ with both the glasses and the honey-gold hair. The color really isn’t good on him. It doesn’t suit his face and it washes him out and Scott wants to slam his screen shut and rock backwards and forwards, chanting until everything goes back to normal.

“Yo,” Scott says around a yawn. “How long do you need to keep the hair for?”

“Two weeks. But that’s by no means the most important information we could be sharing. You saw my last message, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” Stiles says, obviously confused, lower lip curved in a pout. 

“I would be if it’s something you really wanted because you like Van as opposed to something to cross off on a list entitled ’10 things Stiles must accomplish within a semester at Berkeley’.”

“It wasn’t even on that list,” Stiles counters. “And yeah I like Van. She’s amazing. There wasn’t a single girl who’d debate _Game of Thrones_ with me back in Beacon Hills, but Van and I yell at each other for hours, because she does not support Khaleesi and she should have a degree in being wrong all the time. We’ve decided we’re better as friends, but, you know, it was great.” 

“Okay then.”

“Okay. I was expecting you to be a lot more congratulatory.”

Scott doesn’t even attempt to prevent his scowl at that. “You’re being kinda distasteful about it.”

“Wow, thanks, Scott.”

“I just think you should be more respectful.”

“I am, usually. I just… I wanted to brag. This has been a long time coming, what with spending half my high school career running from monsters trying to eat me.”

Scott tightens his fingers into his sheet and paces his breathing so that he doesn’t shift. The urge to wolf out is overwhelming and he has to think of his mom to stop his eyes from flashing, to push back against every part of the transformation. 

“Which is all the more reason it should have been special,” he grinds out when he’s sure he has himself under control.

“Oh my God. I’ve offended your romantic sensibilities. Of course,” Stiles says with an epic roll of his eyes. “We can’t all have our first times with the loves of our lives.”

“I guess not.”

Stiles tilts his head, glaring at him. “Are you annoyed because you’re not getting any and I finally am?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Listen, I’m beat and I have an early lecture tomorrow, so I’m gonna go sleep.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him, sucks at his cheek. “Fine.”

“Cool. Seeya, Stiles.”

Scott has another restless night, remembering the look of betrayal on Stiles’ face when he quit Skype. He tries every lying position physically possible, but there’s nothing he can contort to that’ll stop his everything rebelling. It’s like his body has decided the most effective way to communicate his unhappiness is to bend and twist into words that have endless loops and curlicues. Like his heart never got the memo that the ache was supposed to be metaphorical. Scott can’t find any comfort, nothing even close.

He knows he should be more supportive. It isn’t like he didn’t tell Stiles about Allison or Georgia or Rachael, that he truly believes sex should only be between soulmates. But he can’t stop it from hurting, deep down. Can’t stop his imagination from picturing himself as a wolf, clawing at the sheets and begging to run to Stiles, to brand his mark into his skin and nip at the back of his neck to keep him where he belongs.

*

They converse all in texts for a long time after that. Scott turns off Skype’s automatic start-up feature and Stiles doesn’t call his cell. The first few texts are distant and perfunctory, but before too long they’re back to convoluted discussions that span three different threads on separate topics, all occurring simultaneously. It used to be the best kind of hectic, but it’s hard to keep track of without the added bonus of face-to-face time. 

The conversation that’s giving Scott the most trouble at the moment is the one wherein Stiles says he’ll swing by and pick him up in the Jeep so that they can head to Thanksgiving at his dad’s place together. He doesn’t know if he can take being in a car with him for any length of time as things currently stand. But there’s no way he can explain this, so he doesn’t bother, just agrees to be ready by 8 am. Then frets. And whines. And turns up at Trudy’s, collapsing into Izzy’s arms. 

“This is the worst and I hate you,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it. Izzy isn’t to blame for his scumbag brain and his body’s pronouncements.

“It seems to me like you’re turning this into something bigger than it has to be.”

“You don’t know our history.”

“So tell me.”

Scott tilts his head up from her shoulder, forcing himself not to snuffle. He can’t tell Izzy the whole truth, but he can tell her something, an instance of their friendship that he still cherishes and thinks about whenever he’s low. 

“I had asthma so bad when I was a kid that I was never seen without my inhaler. It was middle school, so of course people teased me about it. Relentlessly. To help me fit in, Stiles started carrying a puffer as well. No one even noticed his was fake and that half the time he used it to pretend to be Darth Vader. The teasing didn’t stop, but the feeling of being alone did and for the first time I knew someone had my back. 

“Stiles isn’t just a friend I have unfortunate unrequited feelings for. He’s my best friend. There was a time he was my only friend. So I can’t screw with that by springing newfound lust on him. That wouldn’t be fair. It would be changing the rules without consultation --- like, ‘oh, you’re trying to score a sixth goal? Sorry, now we’ve switched to the winner being the last man standing. Yeah, I know it makes no sense with what’s gone before, but what does that matter?’”

“Consult him, then. What do you think will happen? If he’s really as good a friend as you think he’ll still have your back.”

“Maybe. But everything will be tense and awkward and I know he’ll feel guilty that he doesn’t feel the same way.”

Izzy pets him, using a soothing voice that doesn’t work. “You don’t get to see the both of you from the outside looking in, but you wouldn’t be so sure those feelings were unrequited if you could.”

*

Stiles is brown-haired again when he arrives, though he’s dressed more like a model than himself, with a neat button-down in place of a t-shirt and hoodie, and pants that fit and aren’t all the colors of the rainbow. There’s a distinct edge of otherness to him, like he’s under demonic possession, or has grown some kind of fashion sense. They fistbump rather than hug and Scott wonders what kinds of vibes he’s giving off for Stiles not to automatically reel him in. He’s met with a wary, evaluating glance, like Stiles is looking for the cracks along his seams, figuring out where to apply the glue to make him whole again. 

“Back to black,” Scott says, even though it doesn’t entirely work, trying to lighten the mood. Maybe he can convince Stiles he reacted so badly simply because of his hair. 

“And I’ll always go back to us,” Stiles says with a slightly unhinged laugh at himself. He winces. “Um. Are we good?”

He’s earnest in a way Stiles usually never is, not deliberately, and Scott’s chest constricts painfully before it releases again. “We’re good.”

He isn’t sure it’s true, but it’s a start. Stiles opens up the back of the Jeep and he flings his bag in. They each climb into the car and Stiles drives off, consulting his GPS for directions. They talk about their classes for a while, with Scott explaining how well he’s doing in chemistry and how he knew it was Harris’ tendency to be a bag of dicks that had him struggling before. Stiles tells Scott about his current favorite professor, who uses memes to get her points across. And it’s easy, for a while. It’s like it used to be. But then Scott’s curiosity starts to get the better of him and he casually glances out the window as he asks what he’s been dying to know. 

“So are you and Van still just friends?”

“Ahuh. She’s dating this guy called Jez. You know the kind of deceptively smart frat type who you want to hate, because he has it all, but it turns out he’s actually super sweet and you can’t dislike him because sunshine almost literally pours out of his mouth. You know. Like you?”

“I think I know the sort of person you mean,” Scott says with a smile. “Too handsome for words? Athletic but also pleasingly geeky? Funny and perceptive?”

“Ridiculously egotistical? Yeah.”

“Any other girls on your horizon? Late nights in other people’s beds?”

“No. I took your harsh words under advisement and decided I should wait until I’m in a relationship. I mean, yeah, it was fun, and I don’t regret it, and I don’t think everyone needs strings attached for sex to be meaningful. But, you know, I probably do.”

Stiles glances at him quickly, furtively. Scott sits still, willing himself to calm down, to not read too much into it. He’s been Stiles’ best friend since elementary school and he _knows_ his mannerisms as well as his own. Stiles wants him to be happy, wants his approval. 

“I’m sorry for being an asshole,” he offers, because he is. If he could stop himself from responding the way he has, he would. 

“Me too,” Stiles says sincerely. “I guess we never anticipated that being separated for so long would have such a disastrous effect on our ability to relate to each other.”

“It shouldn’t,” Scott says. “But you’re turning into someone else every time I see you. Like stop motion animation. One frame you’re over here, the next you’re over there. When we’re together it’s incremental and it looks like natural movement, but when I only see flashes here and there, it’s sudden and confusing and stilted.”

“You’re doing creative writing this semester aren’t you?”

Scott barks out a laugh. “Uh, yeah, actually.”

“You had your great transformation, Scott,” Stiles says quietly. “It’s my turn. But I’m the same person, inside. I haven’t stopped loving you.”

Scott squares his shoulders, turns to look at Stiles, who’s concentrating hard on the road. It isn’t a revelation, because yes, they love each other, neither of them would have been through a quarter of the shit they have if they didn’t, but hearing those words is revelatory anyway. 

Scott rolls his window down, focuses on the kaleidoscope of color outside. “We should put the radio on,” he blurts, cursing his inadequacy.

“Good idea. I need the distraction. My dad’s been texting me pictures of the groceries he’s purchased every day this week and all I can think about are yams and turkey.”

“My mom’s been the same. I swear I could smell the stuffing when she emailed me a photo of all the ingredients. Do you think they teamed up? Were under the assumption we’d want to stay where we were and not have a day full of deliciousness and bickering?”

“Well, the rest of the pack has been invited, so maybe they were using their keenly developed foresight. Hey, quick poll. Who will eat most of the turkey? Boyd or Derek?”

“Me. Or Erica. Maybe Isaac, in a pinch.”

“Wrong. All wrong. The turkey’s mine!”

They continue in this vein for much of the journey. Scott doesn’t allow himself to become complacent, but he does relax minutely. The air isn’t clear between them, there’s a lot left unspoken, but he can breathe easier. 

*

Scott gives a low, contented hum when his mom wraps her arms around him. He kisses her cheek and answers her barrage of questions. Isaac pokes him in the back and he’s enveloped in another hug, this time paired with an affectionate nip to his ear. Even Derek slides a hand over his shoulder. The pack’s tactile, keen to scent mark him as one of their own. They do the same to Stiles, smearing palms over his neck and shirt. 

“Who turned you into their Ken doll?” Boyd asks with a cheesy raise of his eyebrows. 

“No one, baby, I’m all me,” Stiles says, cupping himself obscenely. 

The Sheriff mock-gags and Scott is powerfully reminded just how like his dad Stiles truly is. It’s familiar and playful, and Scott really has missed this, even though he’s now under intense scrutiny he usually doesn’t have to contend with. The questions are easy to field, though, and Stiles is given the same rigorous interrogation, as are Erica and Boyd, even though they’re home every two weeks. Articulating what he likes about Davis and campus life fills him with a purpose and helps him concentrate on evening out his heartbeat. The bad thing about the pack being at the house is how simple it must be for them to sense something’s up with how he’s responding to Stiles’ everything. 

Before long, there’s a clatter of cutlery and they’re eating amazing food that Scott thankfully had no part in making. He takes gigantic bites of everything he can lay his hand on, snatches the Brussels sprouts from out of Derek’s hand, deliberately not heeding the glare sent his way. He asks Isaac about working with Deaton, commiserating over the annoyance of cryptic instructions, offering theories as to why he can never say what he means. 

Later that day the pack all curl up on the chairs and couches, thoroughly sated, as Derek helps the Sheriff load the dishwasher and his mom goes to work the shift that was sprung on her early in the morning. Scott pats his stomach and wonders if he has space for another slice of pie. He thinks he could manage it, but then he has to choose between cherry and apple and that’s never an easy decision to make.

“While your censorship was commendable, tell me all about the parties,” Erica teases, twirling her hair around her finger and fixing him with a lazy grin. “They look pretty wild.”

“I’ve really only been to a few,” Scott hedges.

“But you’ve been finding yourself, haven’t you?”

Scott frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Skye posted a very interesting photo of you late last night, said she got it off Jake. There’s so much you haven’t been telling us.”

“Interesting how? What hasn’t he been telling us?” Stiles interjects, sitting up straighter. 

“Oh, you probably already know,” she says with a sigh.

He doesn’t have time to stop her. Erica’s flipping open her phone, loading the page. Scott knows what it’ll be without having to look, but his eyes still zoom in on the slightly blurry photo of him and Toby entwined. Stiles’ face goes blank. He doesn’t look at Scott. He stands up and walks out the room. The world doesn’t shudder to a halt, gravity doesn’t cease to exist, but it feels like it. Scott has no idea how much time passes as he sits, hands clenched on his knees, his mind spinning.

“You didn’t tell him you’ve been experimenting?” Erica asks, pale. Scott can tell that everyone in the room could sense Stiles’ fury just as he could.

“No. And it wasn’t really an experiment,” Scott says. “I’m gonna --” He gestures up the stairs.

He knocks on the door, twists the handle when there’s no response. The Sheriff wouldn’t allow Stiles a lock and Scott’s never been happier. Stiles is glowering at him from beside his computer desk, laptop open before him, the offending picture on the screen. The set of his jaw is tense, the bone looking razor sharp, pushing against delicate skin. 

“Hey,” Scott murmurs.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Stiles bites out. “Don’t hi, don’t hello. You’re such a fucking hypocritical liar. There I was, feeling like a prize asshole for moving forward in my life, trying new things, and all the while you were macking with some dude for everyone to see. But not me, oh no, I didn’t get the courtesy of the announcement. Why would Stiles need to know that his supposed best friend’s suddenly not the straight one?”

Scott dips his head, is about to apologize, but Stiles’ words bring him up. “Wait. The straight one?”

“Your lack of observational skills is once again truly stunning,” Stiles says, thick with sarcasm. 

Scott presses his lips together, working on keeping calm. He needs to rationalize this, needs to explain that it was a one-time thing, that he’s going through some issues, that he hasn’t turned into someone else overnight. 

Instead, he says, “Maybe the reason I’ve been freaking out on you is because I’m changing too and I have no idea how to deal with it.” 

“What did you do last time, when you finally pulled your head out of your ass?” Stiles asks with a tone that belies the cruelness of the words. He huffs out a sigh, stands close. Scott can feel the pull of him like it’s magnetized. “Whenever you’re going through anything you should be talking to me. You couldn’t honestly think I wouldn’t accept you.”

Scott sucks in a breath, looks up. “And what if it’s not about acceptance? What if it’s about reciprocation?”

“What do you --- oh.” Stiles looks back at the photo, his expression becoming malleable and unreadable. He zeroes in on Scott again and he’s reminded about just how dangerous Stiles can be. “Really?”

Scott studies him for a while, but there are no answers to the questions he doesn’t have the courage to ask. He’s been through things most people can’t even imagine, but this is still difficult, opening up and admitting that he’s fallen and isn’t sure there’s a way to get back up.

He shrugs a shoulder, gives a defeated sigh. “Yeah.”

“Then I think you should know I---” Stiles breaks off, surges close, curves a hand around the back of Scott’s neck. 

His thumb rubs into the fine hairs at his nape, the pads of his fingers stroke softly against his skin. All Scott can do is stand deadly still, waiting. It isn’t anticipation, because he doesn’t expect Stiles to do what it looks like he’s going to do. It isn’t hope, because he knows he’s had nothing but bad luck. He simply waits, patient. 

Stiles leans in, slides his nose gently against Scott’s cheek, pressing a warm, sweet kiss against his lips. Scott gasps his surprise. He tremors against Stiles’ careful touches, presses his hand against his lower back so he can bring them closer together and have all his warmth. The kisses are slow, but there’s a fierceness there, an undeniable spark. 

Stiles plasters himself all up Scott’s front, shifts a hand to his jaw and tilts his head to ease access for a deeper kiss. One that’s impossibly sweeter, all reverent touches and slow realizations. Scott licks into Stiles’ mouth, sucks on his lower lip. He slides his hands up Stiles’ back and sides, framing his face when it gets too much and he has to give more, give harder. 

They move in tandem, like the moon and the tide. Where Stiles bends, Scott follows, when Scott offers, Stiles takes. Scott loses himself in it, content in a way he hasn’t been for months. 

“Uh. I’ve been reciprocating for a while,” Stiles says with a short laugh when they pull apart, like nothing happened and they can continue on the same as before. “It never occurred to me that you might---”

“I do.”

Stiles smiles, bright and breathtaking. “I can feel that. It feels awesome.”

Scott grins back. “It totally does.” 

They kiss again, harsher this time, Scott exploring some of the things he’s been wondering; like whether Stiles will collapse into a fit of giggles if he rubs his fingers up under his shirt, or the best way to make him shudder. He doesn’t want to go outside and face the real world and other people’s judgement. He wants stay here with Stiles, cocooned in a moment of happiness. 

He never seriously thought he could have this and it turns out he had it all along.

*

He guesses he should have known this was always going to be a possibility. Once they realize that their need for co-dependency is how they work best, they’re constantly together. Berkeley students get used to their campus being infiltrated, Stiles becomes a fixture at Davis. Their friends become bored with conversations conveyed in looks, cuddle sessions that start out innocent and get steadily more pornographic. 

Being with Stiles can be distracting, especially when he won’t stop moving. Against Scott. But it also makes the reward from a hard night of studying so much sweeter. He can concentrate better knowing that at the end of several hours of note taking, he has the promise of Stiles' hands and lips and all-consuming attention.

Their parents are wary at first, as Scott suspected they would be, as he probably would be in their shoes, but the pack’s more supportive than he assumed. Boyd says that’s because the alternative is suffering through months of pining and while that isn’t a lot, Scott will take it. 

They aren’t hugely different from how they’ve always been. Mostly, they just have more. More laughter, more bickering, more sex. Scott loves the two different views he has of Stiles, the fine details and the broad sweeps. Loves that they’re still growing and changing and learning who they are, but that now they’re doing it alongside one another every step of the way. And maybe his fixation on Stiles is like his fixation on the moon, but it gives him strength just as often as it makes him weak, and he really has no complaints.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if there are gigantic contextual or continuity errors surrounding UC Davis and UC Berkeley. I live in Australia and therefore have no real clue what I'm doing, except for google. Please feel free to point out anything that rings false for the setting.
> 
> A line from this was lifted directly from _Psych_ , because I like to imagine Stiles and Shawn getting along with one another.
> 
> Also, I sort of feel like I should apologise for writing yet another Scott/Stiles friends-to-lovers fic, but they're my weakness and I don't think I'll be stopping any time soon.


End file.
